


Moriarty as Matchmaker

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Eventual sexy time, Jim Reads Sherlock, John is confused but curious, M/M, Sherlock refuses to talk, The Great Game, What happened at the pool before Sherlock arrived, john leaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Moriarty said to John had to have meant something, right? It did to John. Did it to Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At The Pool

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe.
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> PS: Thank you to [Ariane DeVere and her brilliant transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/46716.html), which helped us with Chapter 1.

John's heart was pounding in his chest. He willed it to keep quiet, worried that the vibrations were going to set off the bomb currently strapped to his chest. He'd been so caught up in helping Sherlock with this case that he never considered he was going to become part of it. 

Then again the kidnapper had said that it was because he was working with Sherlock that he'd been chosen. "I was looking for a way to get him. I thought for sure that silly girl would be the one." 

When he said that John suddenly realised who he was. Molly's boyfriend -- the gay one hitting on Sherlock in the lab. That didn't help his heart rate or his breathing. How much did he know? What did Molly tell him? 

"But it's you, isn't it? He's going to break for you," the man said.

"Why me?" John asked, unable to help himself. Because they work together? Because they're friends? Surely Sherlock would have come for Molly as well. 

"Oh," the man laughed softly. "He's right -- you don't observe, do you? Yes, he loves the puzzles and he loves being clever, but you -- you are his ultimate prize." He fussed with John's hair a little. "Come on now, don't look so panicked. Let's see that handsome face. You want to look pretty for him, don't you?"

John jerked his head away but immediately regretted it--at least until the bomb didn't go off. His anxiety-riddled mind was making it seem so much more sensitive than it probably was. "Why are you going to let him see me? You haven't any of the others," John said. 

"Oh, well, that's the best part. He's going to think you're me -- well, that you're the bomber. And you've been living right under his nose!" The man tugged the coat around John tightly, tight enough to make John wince. His mind was playing a hundred images of his body exploding all over the pool.

"Come on now, think about it," the man continued. "It'll be hilarious. He's been trying to solve all the riddles while you stood there watching and fawning. And now he's coming here to meet the man behind it all. His heart's been racing since the moment he received the text. He'll walk in and who will he find? You. The one he was trying to impress. He'll think he's been mightily -- no catastrophically -- fooled. Hilarious!" The man laughed gleefully. "And what's best is we'll actually be able to see it -- that moment when all the little pieces in his brain fit the whole puzzle together into a picture of you. And then he'll be filled with regret -- he'll regret not figuring it out, of course, but it'll be a greater regret than that, won't it? We'll be watching his stone cold heart break. It's going to be absolutely beautiful." 

"He's never going to believe that. He's too good," John said immediately. But he knew that, at least for a moment, that was going to be true. Especially with the bomb covered in this coat and with the only words he's allowed to say are what this maniac has told him to say. Despite all of the adrenaline, John's brain was picking up on other words and phrases -- about Sherlock's heart breaking when he found out, about how he'd been trying to impress John, and his comment before about how Molly had been the wrong one. The wrong what, exactly? 

"Oh, wait -- what's this?" the man said. "I see your own little brain is doing some processing itself. Yours is a bit slower than his and mine, but it's catching on now, isn't it?" The man looked closely at John's face and then smiled. "My god," he stepped back and laughed again. "What do you two do all day? You live together, you're in each other's presence twenty-hour hour a day . . . and you're telling me you've never talked about it? You didn't even know? Does he? He must, he must . . . oh my god, this is going to be even more beautiful than I thought!" The man's smile was even more maniacal now. 

"Talk about what?" John asked, again unable to help himself. "Tell me what you mean," he faltered. For a second, he forgot all about the bomb. 

"Oh you lovely boys, you," the man said. "Come on now, let's stop fussing -- he'll be here any moment now. Let's get you sorted." He fussed a bit more with John's coat, covering the bomb. He pulled the collar a little tight and leaned in towards John's face. "Can I tell you a little secret?" he whispered.

John didn't reply.

"I'm a little . . . jealous," the man said and put a little kiss on John's cheek. He stepped back as if to admire this work. "Okay, I think we're ready now." He started to walk away. "Remember the plan, John, stick to the rules. And enjoy his heartbreak -- I know I will." And then he was gone.

Sherlock opened the door. He began walking towards the shallow end of the pool and then stopped, trying to see up into the area above his head. Finally he turned towards the pool again, raising one hand and holding up the memory stick.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present," Sherlock called, holding a memory stick up in the air. "Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me dance – all to distract me from this."

He gestured with the memory stick, then turned in a slow circle as he waited for a response. Then a door opened and John stepped out. He looked at Sherlock as the detective stared back.

"Evening," John said. "This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?


	2. Back Home

_But we both know that's not quite true_. Despite everything that John had been told before Sherlock arrived, that was the line during Sherlock and Moriarty's conversation that put everything into perspective. Sherlock had walked in and, of course, looked confused and even hurt. And everything that then happened had unlocked something John hadn't seen before. He had been willing to die with this man he had only known for such a short time. In the cab ride home, he wondered about this and realised that he felt something for Sherlock that he had always been looking for -- love. Sherlock had saved him from his loneliness, had saved him from his leg, had given him something exciting to focus on again. If his life had ended at the pool, he would have ended it feeling happy.

He looked over at Sherlock as they walked into the flat. The only reason John was entertaining these thoughts, as well as entertaining the idea that he should act on them, was due to a maniac proving, in his own incredibly sick way, that Sherlock felt the same way about John.

"So . . ." John said. "We found your Moriarty."  
  
"Shut up, John," Sherlock said, moving him over to the sofa. "Sit down and let me get you a cup of tea."

Sherlock moved into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. He had seen the look on John's face at the pool -- the fear -- and knew he was probably still in shock. Right now all Sherlock wanted was for John to stop talking and try to relax a bit.

At least that's what Sherlock was telling himself he wanted. The truth was focusing on fussing with John was easier than what he really wanted, which was to try to process everything that had just happened in the last few hours. There was too much there, too many questions he needed answers to, too many thoughts -- no, _feelings_ \-- and he couldn't even figure out which to deal with first. So he tried to close them all down and respond as if they'd just been through something scary but mundane, like a car accident. In fact, he didn't even appreciate the irony of what he was doing when he moved over and grabbed a blanket to wrap around John's shoulders.

"Sherlock, stop fussing for a second and listen. What did he mean about both of you knowing it wasn't true, that stuff he said about your heart?" John asked. 

Sherlock moved back to the kitchen and returned with the tea. He handed one to John. "Shush," Sherlock said. "You're confused and distressed. You don't know what you're saying. Don't try to make sense of a madman, John." He sat down on his chair. "We'll have to tell Lestrade everything or almost everything. We'll sort it tomorrow when you've calmed down." He took a long sip of tea.

John tried very hard not to roll his eyes. "Sherlock, I am perfectly calm right now. I was in a war for crying out loud, it takes more than a bomb to make me confused and distressed." This wasn't exactly true. Being so close to death again -- especially with a bomb -- had set off his hand tremor and anxiety. He knew he was in for a couple rough nights of sleep.

"This is different, John," Sherlock said. "Because I'm involved."

"Right, but that doesn't make me too distressed to talk. We almost died, and I think I deserve to know why," he said. He sipped at his tea to give his hands something to do.

"He's insane, John -- I mean, why did those other people almost die . . . that old woman and others did die, why? There's no logic to it, John. Don't try to find logic in insanity."

"I'm not confused about why he was playing this sick game, Sherlock. I am confused about why he took me. And even more than that about the things he said . . ." John took another sip of tea and knew that he couldn't press this too much. If Sherlock didn't spill the reason tonight then he would just have to try again tomorrow. Something more was going on here, and he was going to find out one way or another. 

Sherlock smiled lightly at John. "I like seeing you curious, John," he said. He got up and sat down next to him. He grabbed his hand and held it, looking up into John's eyes. He was silent for a moment. "There," he finally said. "Your tremor's gone and your pulse has returned to normal." He dropped John's hand and stood up. "It's three in the morning, John. We should go to bed."

When Sherlock took his hand, John was sure that this was going to be it. But it wasn't. John sighed and stood up, taking his mug to the sink. "This conversation isn't over, Sherlock." He headed for the stairs to go up to his room. His heart was already working too quickly.

Sherlock watched John leave and then stood there for a few moments. He turned off the lights, took a quick shower and then got into bed. He stared up at the ceiling and watched a replay of the entire night before shutting his eyes.

But one scene played over and over on the inside of his eyelids. One scene wouldn't go away. It was the moment John stepped out from that doorway.

From the first second they had met, Sherlock had sensed John was different. That first day, he didn't try to process it and then the case had started and Sherlock had allowed himself to be distracted by the mystery. But afterwards, when Sherlock was standing by Lestrade describing the man who'd shot the cabbie and looked over and saw John there -- he didn't need to process it. He knew. He loved John.

But that's not what Sherlock Holmes did. Not what Sherlock Holmes felt -- because Sherlock Holmes didn't feel. So he'd tucked all those things away and let the cases take over. And besides, John spent his free nights out, elsewhere, and when he did, Sherlock kept himself busy -- not processing, not feeling.

But that moment when John stepped out of that doorway -- for a second, Sherlock thought he'd been wrong. Not just about his acceptance of John, his trust in John, as a colleague. He thought he'd been wrong about all of it. And that -- although Sherlock would never ever say the words, not even in his own head -- broke Sherlock's heart.

He turned over in the bed and tried to focus on Moriarty, on the puzzles, on the memory stick. On the facts of the case. But he couldn't. So he reached for his phone.

_Just wanted to check if you're still feeling all right. SH_

Every time John closed his eyes, he saw the bomb being strapped to his body. When his phone buzzed, he jumped and covered his mouth. He stared at the message for a long moment before typing back his reply.

_Can't sleep.  -JW_

_Can I do anything to help? SH_

_Just trying to make my brain stop thinking for a bit. -JW_

_I'm sorry for everything, John. SH_

_You didn't strap me to the bomb. -JW_

_You wouldn't have been there at all if it hadn't been for me. SH_

_Tell me more about that. -JW_

Sherlock frowned. 

_Go to sleep, John. Don't let him get into your head. You've already got one sociopath in your life, you don't need another. SH_

John sighed.

_Good night, Sherlock. -JW_


	3. Case Notes

In the morning, Sherlock was up before John. Even though he was eager to work on the Moriarty problem, he knew John might have had a bad sleep so he tried to be as quiet as he could as he made some tea and sat down at his desk. He wanted to think about nothing but the facts, and he hoped that he could extend that focus to John once he woke up. He opened his laptop and started writing notes on everything that had happened.

John dragged himself out of bed and signed softly. He had hardly slept, and he was exhausted. He made his way down stairs and started making coffee instead on tea. "Morning," he said.

"Morning," Sherlock said. "I hope I didn't wake you. You look terrible. Did you not sleep at all?"

"Nope, I'll be okay. I just need some coffee." John lifted the mug and took a sip, wincing and shaking his head.

"Are you up for working?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," he said. "When do you want to squeeze our talk in?"

"I've set aside the whole day -- I want to get all the notes written up, one for us and one we can share with Lestrade," Sherlock said. He looked up and saw John's face. "Oh," he said, looking back down at his desk. "That's not the talk you're referring to."

"No. But let's go over the notes and you can fill me in," John said as he sat down in the sofa.

Sherlock brought his laptop over to the sofa and passed it to John. "I've written up everything that happened once I'd arrived," he said. "This is the version for us. Once we get it all down, we'll decide if we want to take anything out before we pass it to Lestrade." He looked over at John reading. "I need to know what happened before I arrived," he said quietly.  
  
John took the computer and started typing what happened from the time he was kidnapped to Sherlock's arrival. "I want to talk to you about these things that he said to me," he said as he typed them out.

"You don't have to, John," Sherlock said. "Would you rather not share it?"

"I want to know what he means," John said, giving the computer back to Sherlock.

"Don't be daft, John," Sherlock said standing up to get more tea. "He didn't mean anything really -- he just wanted to frighten us." He kept his back turned to John.

"Okay but these things aren't scary . . . they're confusing and I want to know why he thinks you think these things," John said.

"What on earth would make you think he knows what I think?" Sherlock said, turning around abruptly. "You go to him now for information on what I think? We work together, John, we live together -- you know me, not him. Stop falling for all his tricks!"

John flinched lightly but pressed on anyways. "Then you tell me what you think -- why would he make these assumptions?"

Sherlock frowned and turned back to pour the tea. "I don't know what assumptions you're talking about," he said.

"Why me and not Molly?" John asked, pointing to the screen. "That's his reason. What's yours? He was in with her -- why risk a change and go for me last minute?"

Sherlock glanced at the screen and then quickly and deliberately turned his head away. "You're my colleague -- obviously this means you know more than Molly about the cases and therefore . . . you're more of a risk to lose. Of course, I'd come for you." He fiddled with some papers he'd brought over, hoping it wasn't obvious he wasn't actually looking at them. "See? Don't get caught up in things."

"But that's not what he was talking about. He was talking like . . . like it was more than that." John realised as he was pressing Sherlock for information that he wasn't thinking clearly. Why would Moriarty know more than Sherlock? Why would John believe him? Because he _wanted_ it to be true.

Sherlock looked over at John, praying that he would stop this line of questioning. It wasn't about the case -- it wasn't even really about Moriarty. It was about Sherlock and Sherlock's . . . feelings, and those weren't what Sherlock wanted to be focusing on. "Have you finished everything?" he asked, trying to turn their attention back to the notes.

John pushed the computer at Sherlock and nodded. "Yeah, I'm finished." He didn't understand. Did Sherlock need to hear John say it first? But what if he was wrong?

Sherlock skimmed over John's notes. Moriarty's words made him panic -- of course, he totally understood John's curiosity but Sherlock couldn't . . . couldn't talk about something he had no idea about how to handle. He pushed those thoughts aside. "So he mentioned nothing about the memory stick?" he asked as he stood up and moved over to his desk.

"You can read," John said grumpily.

"John, look, if you're still feeling freaked out about all this, you don't need to help me," Sherlock said. "I mean it -- last night was stressful. Take the rest of the day off, if you want."

"I'm not stressed!" John said a bit too loudly. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I think I will go for a walk."

"All right," Sherlock said softly. He didn't want John to be angry at him, but stronger than that desire was the urge to just ignore the questions John had. "We can order some food when you get back if you want. Take your time." He got up to make himself another cup of tea.

John grabbed his coat and walked down the steps. When he got to the pavement, he had a sudden flash of when he was grabbed last night. His hand clenched and opened and clenched again, and his breathing was shallow again. He moved back and sat on the steps, bending forward and trying to breath normally again.

Sherlock returned to his desk, carrying his mug and a few biscuits. He read over the notes again, thinking carefully about John's additions. He remembered last night -- John going out and Sherlock getting the text. He'd actually felt excited about what might happen and now he realised that while he'd been sitting there looking forward to the showdown, John had been grabbed and taken away. Sherlock felt guilty as if somehow he should have known.

Should he have known Moriarty would take John? It appears from what he'd said to John that Moriarty was well aware of the feelings Sherlock was denying. It made Sherlock hate him even more. He hated him for the bomb threats, for the deaths, for scaring John, and for knowing Sherlock much too well.

Downstairs, John couldn't stop seeing it. What if it happened again? What if the game wasn't over? He looked up suddenly and scanned the street, feeling exposed at the door. He stood and backed up inside. He knew he was going to look foolish but maybe if he lay down it would be better. He went back upstairs, took off his coat and hurried up to his room before Sherlock could say anything to him. 

Sherlock looked up quickly when John came in, immediately calling "What's happened?" John said nothing but headed straight to his room. Sherlock followed. He knocked on John's door. "I won't bother you," he said softly. "Just tell me you're okay."

"Please go away," John said quietly. He didn't want Sherlock to see him freaking out over nothing.

"John, please," Sherlock said. He rested his hand on the doorknob but didn't turn it. "Please let me come in for a moment."

"Sherlock . . . I don't . . .I'm fine." He leaned on the door and took deep slow breaths.

"Did something happen outside?" Sherlock asked. "Please -- tell me the truth. Was someone out there?"

"No one was out there. I just . . . I didn't want to walk anymore." He closed his eyes and knew that sounded so stupid. "You know why. I know you can figure it out."

"I don't know what you mean, John," Sherlock lied. "I just wish . . ." he added, struggling to find the most appropriate words. "I wish I could make whatever's bothering you go away."

"Well, we can't unkidnap me so . . . so that's that." John sighed and moved away from the door, making it noisy enough for Sherlock to notice and open the door if he wanted to.

Sherlock took the bait and opened the door. "Sorry," he said. "I guess I just wanted to know you were all right." He stood awkwardly at the door. "Please, John," he added, his voice sounding a little more desperate than he meant it to. "Let this go, please. If you can't . . . I don't know -- John, I wish I could guarantee things like this would never happen again, but this is my world. I thought you knew that."

John looked up and was about to say something when he realised that Sherlock was right. He did know this is what it was going to be like, and that was precisely why he'd stuck around. "The bomb . . . it was just too close to home. I just need a bit of time."

"And I can't be a part of this? I got you into it but I'm excluded from helping you get over it?" Sherlock asked. He hadn't moved yet.

"Well, you're excluding me from the reason why so it's only fair," he said. He swallowed and looked down. "It's fine. I got over it before, I can do it again."

"Damn it, John," Sherlock said. "Please stop going on about something that he totally made up to confuse you! Don't let him . . . ruin us."

"Ruin us? I just want to know what us is! The things he said . . . I mean, isn't any of it true? What do you think we are?"

Sherlock sighed. He wished John hadn't backed him into this corner. "I know what we are and so do you. We're colleagues and we're flatmates and we're . . . friends. That's unusual enough for me . . . Please, just . . . " He looked down at the floor.

John looked at him for a moment and then shook his head, gently pushing him to the door. "You should go so I can rest. Just . . . go," he said quietly.

Sherlock looked at John and could tell he was not satisfied with Sherlock's response. He could tell John needed, wanted more, and Sherlock considered trying to give it to him. But instead he said, "Okay. We'll get some dinner when you get up." He turned and decided to go into his own bedroom to lie down for a bit.

"Yeah," John said before closing the door quickly behind him. He leaned on the door for a moment before moving to the bed. He lay down and stared up at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep -- he knew that -- but just like the walk, he was going to pretend for a little bit.

Sherlock lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He knew this was bad. John wasn't letting things go and to be fair, why should he? There was something going on in the flat -- why would John ignore that just because Sherlock was? Sherlock was an expert at ignoring feelings, at convincing himself they didn't matter. John wasn't. John was normal. Sherlock rolled over and squeezed shut his eyes.

If he spoke to John about it, what would happen? Whether John was pleased or not that Sherlock had feelings for him, it wouldn't matter -- eventually Sherlock would do something wrong and John would leave. Sherlock knew that. Which is precisely why he had intended to pretend he felt nothing. But now John was going on about it, trying to force Sherlock to acknowledge it. If he didn't, would John leave? Sherlock felt his heart hurt a little: he was going to lose John either way. 

John didn't know how long he lay there trying not to think. If Sherlock would just speak to him . . . he imagined going into Sherlock's room and laying with him. Warm, curled up, not alone. He looked and the door and covered his face before rubbing it hard. How was he going to keep living here with his new feelings if Sherlock didn't return them?

Sherlock took a few deep breaths. He listened to all the voices in his head -- John's, Mycroft's, even Moriarty's. He couldn't do this -- he couldn't admit his feelings, knowing he'd fail at expressing them. His feelings had saved John's life -- wasn't that enough? He took another deep breath, rolled off the bed and got back up. He was going to be normal now, it was all going to go back to normal now. He moved into the kitchen, made a cup of tea, and sat down again at his desk.


	4. John Forces Sherlock To Talk

When John couldn't keep his eyes open anymore, he dragged himself out of bed and made his way back down, stumbling a bit. Tonight he would have to sleep but maybe he make himself too exhausted to dream. He poured himself some tea and moved into the sitting room, standing near the door.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked without looking over.

John hummed and risked the sofa, sitting up at the far end and sipping at his tea. He felt so exhausted.

They both sat silently for a little while. Eventually Sherlock said, "Dinner?" He finally looked over at John.

John's eyes snapped open. "Yes," he said. "Yes, sounds good."

Sherlock grabbed his phone and ordered some Chinese. He closed up his laptop and moved to the kitchen to get the plates ready. He wished John would talk -- would just be normal like Sherlock was trying so hard to be. 

"Did you email Lestrade?" John asked as he sat up again.

"Not yet," Sherlock said. "I redid the notes to send him. Want to look over quickly?" He brought his laptop over to John and then sat down at his desk.

John took the computer and looked over the notes. "You took a lot out," he mentioned.

"Not all of it they need to know," Sherlock said. "Not all of it is relevant."

"Not relevant . . ." John said, moving the computer back to Sherlock. "If you really think so then I guess it's done."

"I meant to them," Sherlock mumbled. He looked up. "What's done, John? What's done?"

"The case. That's what it's all about, right?" John rubbed his temples and stood to take his mug to the sink.

Sherlock looked down at the desk. He was quiet -- he knew for too long. Finally, he said, "Right."

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Sherlock jumped uncharacteristically. He got up and retrieved the food and then spilled it out onto the plates. He carried them into the sitting room, handing one to John.

John took his plate with a small thank you. He ate a couple bites and then mixed it around, looking over at Sherlock. "Can you look me in the eye and promise that he was lying? That it's all nothing?" He felt his jaw tense -- he was nervous. It was his last attempt to make Sherlock admit anything that would get the right conversation going so John could tell him how he felt.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He fiddled with his food for a few minutes and hoped that something would happen to distract John. But nothing happened.

So Sherlock took a breath and said something that was true but that he knew didn't answer the question John was asking. "What I can look you in the eye and promise, John, is that Moriarty and I are playing a game. Right now he is winning. Because he used you. Because he doesn't play fair." He wasn't looking in John's eye. He swallowed and continued, "But I don't play fair either. Right now the only thing that matters is that I win this game. That's the only thing that matters to me and, I had presumed, the only thing that mattered to you. If you feel differently . . . then perhaps we have both misjudged our acquaintance."

"Misjudged our acquaintance," John said quietly. "Yeah, I think we have." He stood suddenly and put his food away in the fridge, still on his plate, and then went up to his room. He dragged a suitcase out of his closet and started piling in clothes. He needed to get away, just for a bit to see if he'd be able to get over this. 

Sherlock watched John get up and move away. He didn't know what to do -- there was a part of him that wanted to follow, to tell or to at least stop John from being upset. But another part, the part that was more familiar and more comfortable, clung to the hope that his words had ended John's line of inquiry. He sat there for a while and then took his plate into the kitchen. "I think I'll work in my room," he called loudly before grabbing his laptop and disappearing into his bedroom.

Half way through packing John realized he was going to have a hard time leaving the flat. He had barely been able to make it outside the door to the street. He sank down next to his half packed bag and tried to think of what he could do instead. C. He remembered the empty flat. It was pathetic, but maybe it would be enough if he just stayed inside for a while and worked on whatever was happening to him. He stood and filled the bag, dragged it off of the bed and headed down.

He glanced at Sherlock's room. He could tell him after he spoke to Mrs Hudson. Or maybe he wouldn't. He left the bag near the door to go down and ask her about it.

Sherlock heard movement in the sitting room and then the door open and shut. He quickly got up from the bed. "John!" he called but there was no answer. He stepped out and saw the flat was empty. But there was a suitcase near the door. Sherlock opened the door and looked but didn't see John. He came back in, picking up the suitcase and setting it on the sofa. He plopped down next to it, draping his arm across its top.

Mrs Hudson, of course, tried to convince John into not leaving at all, but she agreed to get the heat going in the other flat if John promised it'd only be temporary. John did and then went back up to grab his bag. When he saw it was gone he stepped in further and stopped short when he saw Sherlock. "I need that," he said stupidly.

"You're leaving then?" Sherlock said, looking forward and not moving from the suitcase or sofa.

"Just for a little bit, yeah," John took a step forward and paused again.

"Long enough to take your things," Sherlock said, not sure if it was a question or a statement. "I don't want you to go," he said quietly.

"Just a few things. I need to go for a little while," John said softly. "I need to."

"Don't do this, John," Sherlock said, finally looking over.

"I have to, Sherlock. I'm sorry," John said, moving closer again. He needed his bag.

"Please . . ." Sherlock said softly, looking up at him. He moved his arm off of the bag.


	5. John Can't Stay

John wrung his fingers and moved closer still, taking his bag awkwardly. "I need to. I need time," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."  He backed up and put his coat on. He left and shut the door, disappearing quickly into the flat below them. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily.

Sherlock stared at the wall across from him. His heart was beating, his blood was presumably moving through his veins, but he felt incapable of actually doing anything else. Eventually his sight blurred and he closed his eyes. Then he got up and went to bed.

John didn't even unpack his bag. Each night he pulled out the essentials and then stuffed them back into his bag. He could hear Sherlock moving around up in the flat but not very often. It was usually at night when John wasn't sleeping. He was still having trouble sleeping.

After swearing her to secrecy John ate meals with Mrs Hudson while she tried to convince him to go upstairs and talk to Sherlock. But he couldn't, because being away from Sherlock had only made his feelings worse. He missed him so much that it hurt. Did Sherlock really feel nothing? He was so hard to read. But Moriarty's words continued to haunt John every night while he tried to sleep. Or pretended to try to sleep until he became exhausted and passed out.

In the upstairs flat, Sherlock was failing at his attempt to return to normalcy. If John no longer wanted to be here, he told himself that first morning, that was fine. Sherlock had existed before John and certainly he'd exist after him. But he struggled to. He didn't like not being able to hear John's voice or see his face. He couldn't stop making two cups of tea. He read and reread every message between them on his phone and in his email inbox. He poured over every post and comment on the blog. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror.

Sherlock thought about texting John. He thought about getting Mycroft to find him. But John was smart and he had made a choice and Sherlock knew that choice had been made for a reason. Even though it was breaking Sherlock's heart, he would respect John's choice and not chase him as if he were just a lead in another case.   
  
And that was the final piece of evidence that proved that Sherlock loved John.

After three days of rotating the clothes he'd brought, John had to do his laundry. There was no way he could go up for more clothes because he was never sure if Sherlock was at home or not. But he needed to do this quickly because he couldn't have Sherlock catching him in the hallway either. He took just a few things so it would be quicker and he pulled open the door, peeking out into the hall before stepping out.

Sherlock's final acceptance of his feelings towards John had sent him back to his bedroom. He had pulled shut his curtains and kept the lights out. He had waited too late in life to feel love for the first time and now he had no idea how to get through the pain of having lost that love and no one he could ask for help. So he decided to stay in bed until he came up with another way of coping.

John hurried to Mrs Hudson's flat, dumping his clothes in her washer before starting it up and leaning on the wall to wait for it. The second the machine stopped, he started hanging them on Mrs Hudson's racks, willing them to dry.

John wondered what would have happened if he had told Sherlock the truth about his feelings -- if he had said that he was hoping the things Moriarty said were actually true. But he knew that was crazy; Sherlock had been so upset just at the thought of them. John would have been risking ruining everything. And yet now everything was ruined anyways and he was sad on top of it.

Mrs Hudson returned and saw John in her flat. He explained about his clothes and ignored her when she suggested just going upstairs for clean clothes. She left John to go put away her shopping.

Sherlock drifted in and out of sleep until he heard his phone vibrate. He reached over quickly, hoping it was a text from John saying he was coming home. It wasn't. It was one from Mrs Hudson.

_There's post downstairs for you._

_Not interested. SH_

_It might be important, maybe from your brother. There's an M for the return address._

Sherlock sat up. M? Was this a new trick from Moriarty? He went to the bathroom and washed his face, before slipping his dressing gown around him. He unlocked the door and opened -- it was the first time it'd been opened since John had left -- and headed down the stairs. He picked up the packet of envelopes on the table and flicked through them, but didn't see the letter Mrs Hudson had mentioned.

John had collected his clothes and folded them. He thanked Mrs Hudson and headed out. When he pulled open the door, he saw Sherlock at the landing looking at the mail. He backed up carefully and shut the door.

Sherlock looked up at the opening door but then it was shut again. He moved over towards it. "Mrs Hudson?" he said. There was no response. He opened the door.

John had no time to push the door and keep him out. He heard Sherlock's voice and then he was there. "I . . . it's me," he said stupidly.

Sherlock stopped. "John," he said. He looked up at him. "You've come home."

"I didn't . . . I couldn't leave," John admitted.

"Come home," Sherlock said, this time a blend of a plea and a command.

"I just . . . I still need to work on stuff," he said quietly, looking over at him.

"No, John," Sherlock said. "Come home and work on it." He looked down. "Please."

"I can't. I can't with you there because it's hard. You don't want to talk about it," John said.

"Well, since you've lived with me, we've done lots of things you haven't wanted to do and we've been okay," Sherlock said. "Just . . . come back."

John lifted his bag. "I just came up to do some laundry," he explained.

"There's a whole wardrobe full of clean clothes in the flat," Sherlock said. He stepped a little to the side, waiting for John. "Please."


	6. John Can't Stay Away

John stood for a moment and then headed upstairs to the flat.

Sherlock followed, going in and making two cups of tea. He brought the mugs over and sat down in his chair to wait for John to put his things in his room. When John came back, Sherlock said, "All right. Talk."

"You talk," John said. "What did he mean?"

"He meant that I have affection for you," Sherlock said. He tried to keep his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "As everyone knows, I do not have affection for many people." He took a sip of tea. "And clearly I do for you."

"Why didn't you tell me that before when I asked?" John asked.

"You know precisely why," Sherlock said. "Affection is not really my area."

"But . . . it's me," John said lamely. "It's me."

"I know, John," Sherlock said softly. "But it's also . . . me."

"I wanted him to be right,"  John said quietly. "And I was asking to see how you felt and you freaked out."

"And why do you think I responded that way?" Sherlock asked.

"I thought it was because you didn't want the same thing," John said. "You said from the beginning you weren't interested in that kind of thing. I guess I hoped that something had changed and then you freaked out and . . .I don't know."

"Stop for a second, John," Sherlock said. "Obviously that night shook you up more than you'd admit, because you're not been thinking very clearly, it seems." He looked over at him. "Since you've known me, when I am in situations where. . . affection of any sort is present, what do I do? When Mrs Hudson fusses me or you're with a date or victims' families are around-- what do I do, John? I 'freak out' as you call it because I don't know how to . . . I . . I just don't know how to _be_." He swallowed. "I don't know how to be now, John . . . with you . . . and my affection."

"But I need you to be with me, Sherlock. The nightmares . . . I can't sleep. I need your help," John said.

"Tell me what to do, John, I will try," Sherlock said. "That's the problem -- I don't _know_ what to do. And I can talk through logic easily, but feelings aren't always logical and it's sometimes like I can't . . . even make the words in my head." He glanced down -- it was embarrassing but true.

"Just tell me what you feel, Sherlock." John Licked his lips and looked up at him, waiting patiently.

"I feel . . . like I always want to be by you," Sherlock said quietly, still looking down at the floor.

John flushed and smiled softly. "Well, want to start now? We can move to the sofa."

Sherlock slid from his chair and sat down on the sofa. His stomach felt a bit sick with nerves about how all of this would play out and in what way he would undoubtedly ruin everything, but at the same time he was so relieved and happy that John was back home with him.

"I'm scared, Sherlock. I can't go outside and I can't sleep," John said. "I just wanted to come back and be with you."

"You should have," Sherlock said, sliding an arm around John and pulling him closer. "You have when you had nightmares before -- you always can, John." His hand stroked John's back lightly.

John leaned on his shoulder and nodded. "I know but this time it was different."

"Regardless of what's happened or what will happen -- you still can't let him get into your head," Sherlock said. "That's my job, not yours." He smiled a little against John's head.

John felt his body relax against Sherlock's.

"This is good. Let's stay like this always," Sherlock said softly. He felt confident he could actually handle this, at least.

John smiled and leaned against him. "Do you think you love me?" he asked softly.

Sherlock was quiet for a while. "Just because I don't say things don't think I don't feel things, John. I mean, I know I've given the impression I don't . . . to be fair, I've worked hard not to. But I do."  
  
"I know, I'm sorry," John said. "But how did he know?"

It still stung Sherlock that Moriarty did know. But he did -- Sherlock could not deny Moriarty had read him like a book. "I suppose because he knows words aren't the only way to tell someone something," Sherlock said.

John tilted his head up. "I suppose words aren't the only way. Show me how else you could tell me."

"I've been telling you since we met, you idiot." 

"You have not. Can I sleep with you?" John asked.

"That's a bit forward," Sherlock said laughing a little. "We've not even kissed and now you're proposing sex?"

"No! I meant really sleep -- I can't alone. Because of the nightmares," John said quietly. "But sex too."

"We can start with a kiss maybe," Sherlock said. "I hope that doesn't give you a new nightmare." He squeezed John a little bit so he knew he was teasing.

"It will not," John said. He turned and faced him better, meeting his gaze. "It would be a nice dream."

"But you've not dreamt about it before, though, have you?" Sherlock said smiling. "It took a madman to put the idea in John Watson's head."

John didn't say anything.

Sherlock looked over at him. He smiled -- this was John Watson and Sherlock loved him. He leaned over and kissed his mouth lightly.

John tensed and felt his whole body warm at the same time. "Maybe I haven't before, but I will now," he said as he pressed his lips against Sherlock's again.

"All right," Sherlock said pulling away a little. "Don't get all stupid now." He smiled and stood up. He moved to put the kettle back on and said, "What are you making me for dinner? I've not eaten since you left."

"You're lying because Mrs Hudson told me you were. Can't we keep kissing?" John smiled.

"No," Sherlock said, turning over to look at him. "Were you using Mrs Hudson to spy on me?"  
  
"No, but she was feeding me. Why can't we keep kissing?" John asked, following him into the kitchen.

"I've decided I shall ration out my physical displays of affection," Sherlock said. "You've had a kiss today, two actually, so you mustn't get greedy."

"You're greedy," John said, leaning on him while he waited for the tea.

"I'm not. I'm just more interested in a mature relationship than you are apparently," Sherlock said. "Anyway, about dinner -- what's the plan?"

"I don't know. We can order take out. Thai?" John asked.

"Fine," Sherlock said. "And when we go to bed, will we be we sleeping in your room or mine?"

"Yours," John said.

"Why?"

"It's all you and new. I think it'll help with the nightmares," John said, watching the kettle now.

"Will you be wearing pajamas?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John said, shrugging his shoulders. "I can be mature," he smiled softly.

"And what time do you think we'll be going to bed?"

"I don't know. After dinner," John said.

"And will we be setting the alarm?"

"No. I'm not going into work tomorrow," John said.

"Any other details I need to know?"

"I don't think so. What's happening right now, exactly?" John asked, looking up at him.

"I'm just trying to get a sense of what's going to occur," Sherlock said. "I normally know what's happening but with this. . . I don't know."

"Just be normal. Be you," John said. He pulled his phone and moved to order the food.

Sherlock sat down and waited for John to finish. He looked over at him. "I don't know how to be normal. I know what you're saying, John, but how am I supposed to be 'normal' at something I have literally never done before?"

"Just be you, okay? That's all," John said.

"That advice is of absolutely no help whatsoever," Sherlock said.


	7. Moriarty Was Right

Sherlock looked down and took some deep breaths. Then he said, "The food's here."

A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. Sherlock got the food and spooned it onto plates before setting it down on the table. This, this kind of thing Sherlock knew how to do -- he knew what was going to happen in the next few minutes. He would push his food around his plate and eventually eat a bit. He knew how to _be_ during dinner. But after dinner? What would happen? What would Sherlock do? How should Sherlock be? He didn't know that and he wished he did.

John moved to the sofa and made room for Sherlock to sit beside him, eating quietly. "Don't be nervous or over think it," he said after a bit. "Just be with me."

"Shh," Sherlock said, moving over to the sofa. He grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels. When he settled on one, he moved over a little and leaned into John a bit.

"I'm serious," John said quietly, leaning back against Sherlock as well. He was so glad to be home.

"Is there going to be a lot more talking?" Sherlock asked. He smiled. "I'm sorry, but the talking is making me more anxious. You said be normal -- talking about feelings all the time isn't normal. Talking about what we're going to do and then doing it, that's normal." He squeezed a bit closer to John.

"Okay," John said, shutting up and watching the movie while he ate.

They sat quietly for a little while. Finally Sherlock said, "Oh come on. I didn't mean no talking whatsoever -- I mean your being quiet for this long isn't normal either." He picked up the remote and turned off the television. "Look over at me, please," he said.

"I was enjoying the movie with you!" John said as he turned and looked at Sherlock like he asked.

"I don't want to hurt you, John. I know how to protect you from him, but I don't know how to protect you from me," Sherlock said, reaching over and holding his hand. "That's what I'm worried about -- unintentionally hurting you. That's all." He squeezed his hand. "Let's go to bed, John."

"I know you would never hurt me on purpose, Sherlock. Don't worry about that, okay?" John said and squeezed his hand back.

"I think you know me well enough to know that just saying 'don't worry' is unlikely to have any effect on whether or not I worry," Sherlock said, smiling a little. "So stop saying it and come on." He stood up and motioned for John to follow him.

John stood and turned off the telly before following him. "Okay, I know."

Sherlock turned round. "Hold on," he said, smiling. "You said you'd be wearing pajamas. Don't go changing the details now. Go get ready for bed. I'll use the bathroom and meet you in my room. You be normal, I'll be normal, everything will be fine." He pulled a silly face and went into the bathroom.

John paused and smiled, walking back to his own room. He changed quickly, brushed his teeth and then headed back to Sherlock's room. He knocked and entered slowly.

Sherlock got himself ready and went into his room. He turned on the light, slipped into his pajamas, and got into bed. Then he reached over and turned out the lamp. When he heard John knocking, he turned his lamp on again. "Just come in, John," he said. When John pushed open the door, he smiled at him. "Just get into this bed with me, please."

"I just wanted to make sure you were ready," John said. He moved to the bed and climbed in, looking over at Sherlock.

Sherlock watched John get into bed. He slid down a little and turned on his side to face John. "I want us to kiss now. Properly," he said softly. He moved a little closer and slid an arm around John, holding his lower back. He looked at John's face, giving him a tender kiss.

John hummed softly and kissed Sherlock back, matching his intensity as he touched Sherlock's cheek.

"I've thought about doing this for a long time," Sherlock said in between kisses. "It's good." He kissed John's mouth again and then put more kisses over his face. He moved his hand over John's back, touching him in a way he never had before. 

"I keep thinking about it now. I want it," John said. "I want you." He pressed against Sherlock and pulled him close.

"I want you, too, John," Sherlock said. "My feelings . . ." he trailed off because he didn't really know what else to say. The fact that he had these feelings for John felt like statement enough. He shifted his legs a little, tangling them with John's as he continued to kiss him.

"Mine too," John said, dipping to kiss his jaw and neck.

Sherlock could feel excitement filling his whole body. His skin felt warm and his face flushed. He leaned a bit further into John, pushing him back against the bed. He moved so he was lying partially on John, continuing to kiss him, as his hand roamed up and down his body.

John was still trying to kiss and suck at his neck even though Sherlock was on top of him now. He felt good here, in Sherlock's bed, consumed by him, unable to get enough. His hands pushed up to find skin, and he moaned softly when he did.

Sherlock pressed his hips against John and rolled them. The friction only increased his desire. "God," he exhaled and he pressed harder. He lifted a hand to John's head, letting his fingers get lost in his hair.

"Sherlock," John said, pushing up shamelessly to feel more. He needed so much more.

Sherlock pushed himself up a bit and pulled his t-shirt off. He reached down and helped John to remove his. He leaned over and covered John's chest with kisses.

"Sherlock . . . that feels . . .I can't believe it's you, you and me," John rambled a bit breathlessly, tugging on his hair a bit.

Sherlock shifted his body a little so their cocks pressed against each other -- only the material of their pajamas between them. He rolled his hips in a steady rhythm, still kissing John's chest. He was panting lightly and his skin was hot. 

"I want to feel you," John said. He tugged at Sherlock's pajama bottoms, trying to get them off. Even if they rutted like teenagers all night, he wanted to be closer.

Sherlock wiggled a bit to help John pull down his pajamas. Then he rolled to his side, facing John and reached into John's pajamas to hold him.

"I want you on top of me again. I want to be close," John said, tugging at Sherlock and kissing his mouth hard.

Sherlock moved back over John, angling a little to still press against him while still having space for their hands. He started a slow stroke of John's cock as he leaned down to suck on John's neck.

"Like this . . .yes," John moaned, stroking Sherlock as well and tilting his head back. He gripped Sherlock's hair again and tugged, moaning his name.

Sherlock continued to move against John, harder and faster -- his body against John's body, his hand over John's cock. "Don't stop, John," he huffed out.

John shook his head, his hand moving to match Sherlock's speed.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. "John," he called loudly against his skin and then he was coming and it felt so good and right. He tried to keep his hand moving on John.

John slammed his mouth against Sherlock's as he came just after him, arching up against his body.

Sherlock dropped down onto him, moaning his name over and over as he moved his mouth over John's face. "I love you," he said quietly.

"I love you too," John said. He looked over at Sherlock and turned to face him. "We didn't plan any of that and you did it anyways," he smiled.

"True," Sherlock said, shifting to get comfortable. "But I knew how that bit worked and I have thought about it before." He wiped his hand on the sheet and then rubbed his face against the pillowcase. He took a long, deep breath. "John, I don't think I’ll be very good at the other parts -- I barely treated you well when we were just friends. But if we're going to give it a go, then . . . just tell me if I'm doing something wrong. Don't just leave -- tell me, and if I can I'll change it."

"I won't run away from you, Sherlock. I don't want to be away from you like that again." John turned on his side and draped his arm over Sherlock. "We're going to be just fine, Sherlock." 

Sherlock turned his head and looked at John. They would be. They would be just fine.


End file.
